Renegade
by Quill To Parchment
Summary: When one sees inconsistencies and harbors doubts, one often ends up either uncovering very well-layered, hidden ploys, or falling into the category of paranoid. Tonks was willing to take her chances, for satiating her thirst for explanations far outweighed the prospect of being labeled paranoid. She was odd and clumsy, and "paranoid" didn't really sound all that out of place.
1. Introduction

Rufus Scrimgeour was towering behind his podium like a massive gnarly statue erected for the sole purpose of throwing a grim shadow across the hall. The windowless room was structured with dusty grey stones and lit methodically by periodically placed lanterns. The graduated rows of seats made the ceiling look higher, giving it the impression of being the single largest room in the building. The aurors filed in through the entrance, filling in the benches starting from the very back of the room by order of seniority. Tonks saw that a good number of folks from her department had turned up; mostly new recruits, but some of the more senior members in their sweeping magenta robes were also occupying the backmost benches. They towered above the rest of the occupants with a severe kind of solemnity, leaning toward each other and whispering with urgency.

There was an accompanying sense of foreboding with this observation, and, pushing past gaggles of young aurors, Tonks slipped in quietly next to Bert in the second row.

"What do you reckon?" She muttered as people took their seats around them in a hushed bustling. Scrimgeour continued to stand stonily and watch over the proceedings.

Bert gave her a sidelong glance. "Rather obvious. It's about the Diggory case."

The Diggory case was, naturally, the only Ministry concern that could've demanded an immediate auror debriefing session. It had hit the papers a week ago; the only articles The Prophet was running currently centered on the rumors surrounding the death of Cedric Diggory and the dramatic culmination of the Triwizard Tournament. It was chaotic at the Ministry of Magic, and people were thrown into frenzy. The Department of International Magical Cooperation was currently a harrowing place to be, what with the unending discussions and debates regarding the continuation of the Triwizard Tournament and regular summits with international leaders, and the sight of foreign wizarding government officials striding in and out of the Ministry door became familiar to Ministry employees. In addition, the unexpected disappearance and presumed death of their most senior member, Barty Crouch Sr., was a crippling blow to the already unstable Ministry department. Fudge was cast dubious looks by both the Bulgarian and French ministers. The aurors' office had also been involved in the investigations surrounding Cedric Diggory's death, though come to think of it, Tonks realized, only the top officials seemed to be invested in the inquiries. The staff at St. Mungos had been given permission to determine the cause of death of Cedric Diggory, yet they refused to pass comment on whatever their findings happened to be. Fudge had made a number of public appearances, assuring the crowds that things were being sorted out, and yet, the people could sense a chunk of information was being withheld.

And then there was Dumbledore. And of course, Harry Potter.

That's when things got slightly messier.

It was a rather paramount issue, and the scandal behind Alastor Moody's abduction was the most alarming of its kind that the Auror's had come across since the last war, but it was Dumbledore's interpretation and dubious explanation of all that had passed which had somehow cast an ominous air over it all that the Ministry was attempting its best to dispel. There was a lot of talk about Harry Potter as well, though oddly enough, the mass media did not quote him. In fact, he had mysteriously been indisposed of since the end of term at Hogwarts, and this perhaps may have done more damage than good, for now the press was free to interpret his silence in whatever way they pleased.

But Dumbledore was more vocal than ever before, and some of the things he had said recently in the papers …

Tonks didn't get the time to dwell further on this, for at that moment, the people in the hall fell silent, and all eyes were trailed on Rufus Scrimgeour as he met their gaze dead on.

When he spoke, his voice boomed through the hall.

"It is with a sense of grim premonition that I summon all of you here today. As you might have inferred, the subject of this session does not fall under those of conventional debriefing, but that there is a matter at hand, a grave issue, that requires urgent addressing."

Scrimgeour let his words sink in and draw out the stirring curiosity of his audience. The fresh batch of aurors leaned forward in their seats, caught up in the gravity of what they were hearing. Scrimgeour's lips pursed as his menacing gaze swept across the length of the hall before he continued in his gruff, booming voice.

"You have heard, of course, of the recent events that found their venue at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry not more than a week ago; the regrettable and wholly unexpected death of seventh-year student Cedric Diggory during the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, as well as the illegal detainment and impersonation of Auror Alastor Moody, to name a few. Not to mention, the disappearance of Mr. Barty Crouch Senior a month ago, of whose whereabout we have yet to discern. The Ministry, as you know, has been investing all of its wholehearted efforts in restoring order and providing satisfactory reasoning for and justice to the situation.

"However. We are not wholly united as a wizarding community. While differences of opinion are always to be expected for the healthy functioning of any society, a radical, illogical and unchecked spread of dissent can undermine our government and cast us into instability. With this in mind, the Ministry is highly concerned regarding the published word of certain legion of people who do not appreciate our efforts in dealing with this crisis, and find themselves of the opinion that our interpretation of these regrettable, though entirely accidental, events provided by the Ministry, is not sufficient in their explanation. As such, you may hear alternative accounts of how these events unfolded that are, after thorough examining, far-fetched, and though you may be tempted to accept their verity by virtue of the good reputation of their advocates, I strongly advise you to think on your own two feet and decide for yourselves what is or is not true.

"The guilty persons who have made such claims are people who the Ministry has always had the utmost respect for. Yet there are instances, unfortunately such as this one, where we must beg to differ and fight irrationality with logical steadfastness. The Ministry has taken a stance, therefore, against these claims, and attempts have been made to implore the opposing faction into adopting reasonable thought. However, the aforementioned faction of people has started to develop more … radical methods of resistance and opposition that the Ministry highly disapproves of."

He cast a penetrating gaze across the room, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he gripped the edge of the podium in his bear-like hands. Aurors exchanged glances. The expression on the faces of the senior officers darkened considerably. Scrimgeour continued forcefully.

"As harbingers of peace and safety, it is our duty to debunk falsities, some of which are of a magnitude that could potentially deal a crippling blow to the very pillars of our government. In the process of carrying out our duty to society, we may find ourselves face to face with men, women, and others, the brilliance of whom though is not in doubt, who have previously fought by our sides in the face of a threat to our common world and yet presently refuse to cooperate with our efforts. I implore you, then, not to give in to bouts of sentimentality, but to adopt a stoic resolution to stand your ground till reasonability is restored, as painful as it might be, for our cause tends to that of the good of society, and it would do you well to remember that.

"With that thought in mind, I would like to present you with the brief and true account of what occurred on the 24th of June this very year."

He paused after his long tirade to look them all in the eye. His stance was suddenly less defensive and more clipped and he spoke with detached interest. A scary sort of silence swept the room as the attention of all converged on the man at the podium. The importance of what he was about to say was not lost on Tonks; this was the very first account of the incidents that they would be hearing straight from the mouth of the Ministry. What Scrimgeour said to them now was crucial, almost pivotal; the fate of the Ministry rested on what stance they had chosen to take on the issue.

"Choosing not to address the irregularity of the number, as per the Triwizard Tournament rules four chosen champions had their names selected by the Goblet of Fire at the beginning of the academic year. These four champions, having successfully completed the first two tasks, where scheduled for the third task on the 24th of June; a maze of hedges harboring basic, Ministry-approved obstacles to be fought against and defeated in order to secure the prize at the end – the Triwizard Cup. Out of the four that entered this maze, two returned in defeat at the end of twenty minutes, which left two more – Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter – to persevere at the task.

"It so happens, reasons at first unfathomable yet consequentially revealed, that sometime during the duration of the task, Cedric Diggory met with a fatal accident. It has been concluded that he was physically hurtled at great velocity during a confrontation with a sphinx, collided with a hard surface, and suffered from a head injury that lead to his subsequent and immediate death. Harry Potter, who was quite understandably shaken by the entire ordeal, appeared with Diggory's body at the head of the maze along with the Triwizard Cup, following which Ministry officials at the scene immediately took control of the situation.

"As it happened, another unfortunate turn of events was revealed the very same day, and I speak of the impersonation of Auror Moody, who had been abducted from his home before the beginning of his teaching term at Hogwarts. It was confirmed on questioning and investigation that Mr. Moody had been detained against will for the duration of the year by Mr. Barty Crouch Jr., previously thought to have died in Azkaban."

In spite of having read about the same countless times in the paper, the sensational nature of this development inspired a few heads to shake in awe at Scrimgeour's words.

"To make this deduction more lucid, I take you back a couple of years to the event of the execution of Mr. Barty Crouch Jr. The Wizangamot had sentenced him to lifetime imprisonment, under the order of Mr. Barty Crouch Sr. himself, and as per records, Mr. Crouch Jr. died during his sentence at Azkaban. It was found that Mrs. Ulga Crouch had surreptitiously and illegally taken the Polyjuice Potion and impersonated her delinquent son. Barty Crouch Jr. was taken home the same day as Ulga Crouch was imprisoned under his name and face, and he was tended to in clandestine by his father for the years that followed.

"One year ago, Mr. Crouch Junior abducted Auror Moody, and took a place amongst the staff of Hogwarts School under guise. His motives are believed to be fueled by the instability of his mental health, which was in the least, questionable. However, it is quite clear that he sought to harm Mr. Harry Potter and having failed in this particular aspect, attempted to attack the Minister of Magic on being approached, and for the security and well-being of the Minister, the Dementors were released upon him. He was bestowed with The Kiss."

There was another tiny outburst of murmurs. Tonks exchanged a significant look with Bert, who had the same questions and baffled surprise etched in his eyes. Scrimgeour overrode their mutterings easily with his thundering voice.

"He is currently and permanently of no further use or value to our investigation. It was a very fortunate coincidence, then, that we do not require his input to aid our inquiry into the Diggory case for it has been established that there is no connection between the two, nor is there any connection between the deaths of Cedric Diggory and Barty Crouch Sr., who was confirmed to have developed a mental illness before his death, having displayed questionable behavior even before his disappearance. However, Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore and Mr. Harry Potter continue to claim that the two have a very definite connection, that Barty Crouch Jr. killed his father, who was being controlled by a powerful exterior force and that Cedric Diggory was murdered, both of which accounted for by none other than You-Know-Who himself."

The entire hall gave a collective, violent jerk, but nobody spoke, wildly unsure what they were to say if they did decide to open their mouths. You-Know-Who? The name had died a decade ago along with the now-forgotten and eagerly buried terror of his return. But it was no use denying that the last four years since Harry Potter entered Hogwarts, the world had seen a multitude of increasingly abnormal events unfold in the wizarding community and at Hogwarts. Hushed talks of You-Know-Who's return had sprung up in public, but people turned a blind eye to these radical claims. They were a long shot, and nobody who had lived through the war wished to even consider having to revert back to the blinding fear of living under You-Know-Who's presence. The comfort offered by denial had a tendency to cloud the rational mind and deflect attention from the frightening prospect of weighing the possibilities of his return.

Scrimgeour however, seemed perfectly calm in the face of this macabre declaration. "Understandably, the Ministry does not find any reasonable requirement to believe or fuel such claims, brash and untrue as they are. Our investigations, aided by the brightest and most capable under our employment, has agreed that there is nothing to substantiate this thesis in any way. We thus have a good reason to believe that Mr. Potter and Mr. Dumbledore have ulterior motives, and we urge you to put it out of your mind."

" _What?"_

Bert immediately jabbed Tonks in the ribs, hissing at her to hush as people whirled around to stare at her, some in disapproval and some in tacit agreement with her sentiments. But Tonks couldn't care less, her mind whirred in shocked disbelief. Ulterior motives? Tonks stared at the shadowy figure of Scrimgeour incredulously, wondering if she was actually hearing correctly. But Scrimgeour plowed on, oblivious to the bewilderment of his audience and he threw out his winning lines magnificently and with gusto.

"The Ministry of Magic's Auror Office has been graced with the presence of an uncountable number of venerable witches and wizards, all whom have stepped up to the mantle with noble intentions and lasting visions of the betterment of society. The men and women who have fought with the intention of laying down nothing less than their lives had a clear sense of judgment and no room for pity or violent romanticism to mar their reasoning. These are the men and women whose ideas and memories continue to inspire our department to strive for the best, day by day, so that our loved ones and the children of our community can sleep in peace. We are the ancestors of a great and powerful line of aurors. I call upon that very judgment today, I beseech you to evoke that rationality that they treasured within them and treasure it within you, treasure that spirit that has kept this department, this Ministry, this world, on its feet and I ask you to question that which has always been taken for granted as correct, turn it in your minds, and arrive at a conclusion as to where your loyalties truly lie."

The silence was deafening at this point. Scrimgeour's face twisted in a menacing scowl.

"And for the sake of our Ministry, I hope you choose well. You are dismissed."

* * *

Tonks frowned, leaning back in her chair.

She went over the Diggory case in her mind for the umpteenth time. It was rather rough around the edges, with doubts and flaws in reasoning such as was not usually expected from Rufus Scrimgeour. He was not the head of the Auror Office for no reason. His legendary perfectionism and ruthless dedication set an example for everybody. True, they hadn't finished their inquiry into the matter, but there were certain points and courses of action that had been taken which struck Tonks as rather … unusual.

Then there was Dumbledore and the Potter boy, who presented another vague theory, rather outlandish, but it was a theory all the same, and basic auror training demanded that all theories be considered possibilities and remain so until firmly proven as fallacious. Never leave a kink in the wire or your contraption will fail. Basic auror training.

It was rather doubtful, she felt, that Dumbledore was heading a clandestine operation behind such a heavy excuse. The idea of Dumbledore running a sort of secret underground organization to topple the Ministry made her snort to herself at the ridiculousness. He didn't _need_ to be tactful; he could break into Fudge's office and turn him into a peacock without a blemish on his own skin. Yes, in her mind, that was quite, quite heavily in doubt. From the ample time spent in Dumbledore's office and the occasional sentencing to Fudge's office she had two very distinct images of both. Fudge struck her as somebody who was hungry to use power he could not wield, while Dumbledore quite clearly had power that he did not normally want to use.

Yet the alternative was rather formidable as well – that Dumbledore was right. That You-Know-Who had returned.

She continued to mull the case over in her head, running her metaphorical fingers across its metaphorical surface, and frowning each time she felt unfamiliar patterns, dents, and irregular topography. There were holes, tiny bite-sized holes, but they gnawed at her peace of mind till all she found herself thinking of was those tiny little holes all the time.

She had approached Bert about them, but he had waved her off in disinterest, reading some new book by the Lupin man that had sanctioned his undivided attention for the week. She needed another mind to apply its intelligence on the conclusions she drew in case she had missed some crucial bit that could perhaps placate her doubts. That was when she came up with a simple experiment. Aided with the knowledge that the move would result in her win whatever be the outcome, she had carried out her simple experiment and had run into a dead end.

But this dead end was exactly what she had been waiting for. She'd approached a notoriously Ministry-worshipping colleague in the department, and, with a few well-placed, probing questions regarding the Diggory case, found herself in a situation that she had not only predicted, but one that watered the doubts and uncertainty she was nursing till they blossomed and established fixture in the garden of her mind, making her even more determined to get to the bottom of this.

The dead end manifested itself as Rufus Scrimgeour and a very, very odd reaction he had expressed regarding her enquiries into the case.

He had been severely displeased, almost angry, that she had abandoned the work given to her and dallied about poking her nose in a case which was obviously being taken care of, or 'did she doubt the proficiency of the Ministry'? Did she, a young auror fresh out of training (a one-year veteran actually, sir, Tonks had interrupted) think that she would do better at solving the case than a whole task force of senior aurors who had been undertaking such cases for the better part of their lives?

'No', she had mumbled, and her mind whirred with this new development, the oddity of his reaction which she found was uncalled for when all she had done was ask a few harmless questions. Cases were discussed openly in their department like the weather, more frequently than the latter, in fact, and how could the head auror expect a case of this magnitude to not be discussed, dissected, and analyzed by people who were trained to do just that?

She was intrigued.

After that, she did not approach anybody. She knew Scrimgeour would be watching her closely for days, but she gave the appearance of having lost interest. She hazarded a guess that she wouldn't be trailed for long however, for nosy rookie aurors were hardly the most pressing things on Scrimgeour's mind.

What _was_ on his mind then? Tonks found herself wondering as she watched him clamber around the hall shaking his mane. If the case is settled and quite confidently dealt with, then what bothered him so?

Perhaps not a very valid question, for he was the head of the Auror Office after all, but when one sees inconsistencies and harbors doubts, one often ends up either uncovering very well-layered and hidden ploys or more often than never, falling into the category of paranoid.

Tonks was willing to take her chances, for satiating her thirst for explanations far outweighed the prospect of being labeled as paranoid. She was odd and clumsy and paranoid didn't sound all that out of place amidst these descriptive words.

Estimating that she had given the incident with Scrimgeour a wide enough berth, she made up her mind to pick up where she had left off.

And thus, she set out on her Quest to Fulfill her Thirst.


	2. Suspicions

**Sunday, June 25, 1995**

 **10:21 a.m.**

 **London**

"Not that you're unwelcome, but why are you here?"

To anybody else witnessing this exchange from a perspective that did not belong to either participants in the conversation, they might have been compelled, and even right, to reach for the phone and dial for professional help. Indeed, even if the large black dog at the doorstep had taken its human form, it would still have been much cause of concern, his picture had been published on wanted posters as a mass murder escaped from prison. And, even if one did not know this for a fact, his human face would've scared any average passerby into gripping their valuables just a little tighter; his face was gaunt, his long, untamed hair limp, and his piercing grey eyes clouded over with a fearful, predatory mistrust. He looked like a man that had walked through the gates of hell and returned with a vengeance.

He wasn't, however, in his human form, and this only transferred the suspicion onto the other participant of the conversation. Quiet, polite, and reticent, Rupert Lawley was a familiar face in the neighborhood as a man who kept to himself, but was nice enough a neighborhood if one wanted to borrow some milk. He didn't seem to have any kind of steady job, but the vicinity didn't really care; their downtown neighborhood wasn't exactly the most glamorous place for anybody who wanted to make a fortune for themselves anyway. While his sanity was not usually in doubt, it might have definitely been so now as he spoke from his doorway to the large dog hunched over his doormat, a damp newspaper held between his teeth.

The dog, stripped of muscle as every stray tended to look in such an area of overcrowded inhabitants and unclean alleyways, gazed blankly at Mr. Lawley, with the air of an animal that knew it would eventually be given shelter if it behaved itself. Indeed, Mr. Lawley let out a stern sigh.

"Don't get my couch dirty," he told it flatly, but his tired face looked nostalgic in its grim countenance. It was almost as if he knew the animal personally. He stepped aside, and the wet, dirt-covered black dog slunk quietly into the small flat.

No sooner had Mr. Lawley shut the door of his tiny, withering flat that there was a small pop and, turning around, Mr. Lawley saw a human man in the very spot the weary looking dog had been just moments ago.

The two men looked at each other calculatingly for a long time. Finally, Remus broke the familiar silence.

"Hungry?" Remus asked lightly.

Sirius shook his head.

Unfazed that this was the first reunion since a year ago when he, in his werewolf form, had been tackled down by the very same black dog and driven into the Forbidden Forest, nearly resulting in the death of three students, the man before him, and Severus Snape, and allowing for the escape of the traitor Peter Pettigrew, Remus spoke again with a loaded casualness.

"Well?"

The circumstances of the reunion didn't seem to really bother Sirius either, who looked at his old friend wordlessly for a few seconds before answering. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and grated, like he hadn't used it for a very long time. "Have you read the Prophet?"

Remus shook his head. He hadn't managed to acquire the last two days' copies. He felt himself tense up in foreboding however, because while he had expected that at some point Sirius would turn up at his doorstep, he didn't think it would be so soon or so sudden. If it was on Dumbledore's orders, something was obviously very wrong.

Sirius tossed the battered newspaper that had previously been in his mouth at Remus. He caught it deftly, smoothing it out before unfolding it, careful not to rip it at the spots where it was damp. Where Sirius had acquired this copy, he had no idea, the fact that he'd found it necessary to carry it all the way here lent it significant importance. Without permission, Sirius threw himself onto Remus's limp, worn armchair, hair falling into his face so that all that was visible through the dirt and grim was his aristocratic nose and the grim line of his mouth.

The room was unbearably quiet as Remus read the front, his eyes flying across the page and his brow furrowing with each passing second. By the time he reached the bottom, his face was slightly pale, and he met Sirius's eyes with equally matched horror. "Good lord."

"I'd say," Sirius muttered darkly, picking at the arm of his seat.

"Diggory's son … good lord, that's dreadful," Remus said faintly, slightly unsteady on his feet as his pale face continued to register shock. "I knew him. I taught him …"

He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow in intense thought. "An accident? That's unlikely."

"That's because it wasn't an accident. Diggory was murdered," Sirius replied stonily.

Having collected himself, Remus folded the paper and tossed it to the side, his eyes fixed on Sirius. He walked to the couch directly facing Sirius and lowered himself on to it.

"How?" he asked simply.

"The cup was rigged as a portkey," Sirius said.

"Where did it lead to?"

"The graveyard where Tom Riddle Sr. is buried."

Remus inhaled sharply. His eyes flashed, "And Harry…?"

"Yes, that's how we know. He reappeared on the grounds with Diggory's body."

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, and the familiarity of this reaction made Sirius grip the armchair harder, bringing back old memories of a time long gone in an entirely different world. Not noticing the impact of his action, Remus continued to pinch his nose in distressed and gestured to Sirius. "Explain."

Grimacing, Sirius launched into Harry's account of what happened in the graveyard; about Wormtail murdering Diggory, the death eaters, Priori Incantem … his throat tightened when he began to talk about James' and Lily's appearance, and Remus pursed his lips, but Sirius ploughed on, determined to finish his story.

By the time he was done, the morning sun had migrated to the middle of the sky, the afternoon breeze making the flimsy curtains in the living room flutter soundlessly like ghostly apparitions. The silence rang in the room. Remus had buried his face in his hands. Sirius sat back, fingering a loose thread on the old armchair. When Remus looked up, his face was worn and tired and the grey in his hair was more prominent than ever. It suddenly struck Sirius how old Remus really was, how old they were, how utterly broken their lives had become and how many years had passed.

"Voldemort's back."

The statement hung heavy in the air. There was a sense of foreboding it inspired. They remembered what the First War had been like, remembered like it was yesterday, because it had broken their lives and stolen from them nearly everything they that meant anything to them. They remembered what they had lost to the war, all the years stolen that had been stolen, all the devastation and all the pain.

And now dark times had descended upon them once more.

* * *

 **Monday, July 10, 1995**

 **7:47 a.m.**

 **The Tonks Household**

"What do you think, Dad?"

There was a thud as the newspaper landed on the center of the table, the black-and-white people in the picture on the front page shouting indignantly as all three toppled over onto each other from the impact. Ted Tonks looked up from his journal, eyebrow raised as his daughter continued to stare him down appraisingly.

"What do I think about what?"

Dora gestured vaguely at the newspaper. "This."

The paper was folded back and flipped to page 4, where approximately half the space was dedicated to a cover of Scrimgeour's press release from the day before. It was basically the entire parcel and package that Scrimgeour had put together for the auror hearing, only, sugarcoated and embellished in big media words like 'justice' and 'security,' and tied with a garish ribbon of 'heartfelt condolences' to assure the wizarding population of Britain that indeed Diggory would not be forgotten so easily. It hadn't been Scrimgeour, of course, who'd been interviewed for the article, but a face that was nicer to look at and a voice that was easier on the ears. The Ministry's poster boy smiled dazzlingly from the quarter-page photograph that accompanied the writing.

Ted eyed the paper with the kind of wary mistrust he often reserved for Tonks herself. "Do I have to think anything about it?"

His wariness increased tenfold as Dora leaned forward conspiratorially, slamming a ring-studded hand over the winning face of 'Jerome Crawley.' Her exuberance always put him on the edge for he was a rather peace-loving sort of man, and marrying into the Blacks had been an exciting experience to last a lifetime. He could never keep up with his daughter, as fond of her as he was; not her thoughts, not her ambitions, not her hair, and even now as she grinned at him from across the table, ready to tell him exactly what she thought about 'this,' he sighed with the air of a man resigned to his fate.

"Go on, then," he said, settling back in his chair.

"I think the Ministry is lying," she said with surprising calmness. "I think they're feeding us crap, pulling one over everybody, if you will, because Dumbledore's theory has too much consequence involved. And. I don't think Cedric Diggory was killed by Barty Crouch Jr."

Ted eyed his daughter, picking absently at the tablecloth hanging of the edge of the table. He frowned at her in curiosity. "Why?"

Dora tapped her lips thoughtfully. The kettle whistled feebly in the kitchen in those few seconds of silence. Dora lowered herself into her chair. "They say Crouch was trying to kill Potter, deluded into thinking he was following orders from You-Know-Who. Which makes sense, because he did try to harm Potter, it's why he disguised himself as Mad-Eye to begin with. If he was out to kill people on the streets he wouldn't have gone through the pains of coming to Hogwarts covertly. That established, my question is, why would he wait till the third task to kill him?"

Dora leaned back, her chair balancing on its hind legs. "If I were Crouch, and I wanted to kill Potter, my primary aim would be to do so without being caught. Obviously. In which case, I'd want to either make sure it was pinned on somebody else, or that it was accidental."

She frowned. "Obviously, as Crouch, I didn't frame it on someone else. Maybe Mad-Eye. He did keep Mad-Eye alive after all, so that could've been his plan. Especially if I believed I was to kill Harry Potter on the orders of You-Know-Who. But that would be complicated, and doing so under Dumbledore's nose, since he and Mad-Eye are pretty familiar with each other..."

Ted watched Dora with amused curiosity. She often resorted to thinking out loud to him. Absently, she tapped her finger on the wooden table rhythmically. "Honestly, my best bet would be to kill him during the tournament. If it were made to look like an accidental death during one of the tasks, it would be impossible to trace it back to me. So it makes sense if I were to rig the Goblet of Fire so that Harry Potter's name was chosen as well. After that, it would be easy. If not the first task, because that might seem obvious, I'd try to kill him off during the second."

Now Dora's penetrating gaze was on her father, and there was a triumphant gleam in it. "But I didn't. Why didn't I? What sense would it make to wait for the third task to try to kill Potter? Why, when I had the chance twice to kill Potter, why didn't I? Why the third task?"

"Perhaps he did try," Ted shrugged. "How would you know he didn't?"

"I don't, not really," Dora admitted. "But the probability of him failing to get Potter killed twice during two extremely dangerous tasks and ... you'd have to have really, really bad luck to not be able to get a champion killed. And Crouch wasn't your average wizard either, because it's not a walk in the park, hoodwinking the Goblet of Fire."

"So you're saying," Ted said, "that Crouch had a specific reason to wait till the third task to kill Potter. Which means, you don't think it's driven solely by a homicidal urge or pure delusion."

Dora picked fervently at the tablecloth alongside her father. "I'm saying it doesn't make sense. Under his delusion of following You-Know-Who's orders, what was so special about the third task? What _actually_ happened in the maze, and why did Cedric Diggory end up dead? There's something fucked up about it all. Something happened in that maze. The Ministry is lying."

Ted debated internally over what to address first, his daughter's language or her brash declaration. He opted for the latter. "Heavy accusation you make there, kiddo."

"They're true." Dora said, sitting back in her seat and staring at the newspaper with dislike. "There's something fishy, in any case, and I'll get down to it, you'll see."

Ted shuddered, and it was too conscious a shudder to pass off as someone walking over his grave. It was the shudder of a man who looked away from his charge for a moment too long at the grocery store and had a bad feeling that when he turned back around the child would be gone. It was the shudder of a man who could almost feel his wife's gaze boring into the back of the neck, telling him to put in a word of caution to his daughter before she did something stupid.

"Er, Dora," Ted began hesitantly, "that's a rather serious statement to make against your employers."

Dora snorted in response. "Stupid bastards. If Fudge thinks they can hold their own against Dumbledore he's got one coming."

Ted almost snorted in agreement, but pulled himself back from indulging his daughter at the last minute. He cleared his throat and gave her a stern look instead. "Be that as it may. It's not a good idea to compromise your career on a whim."

"But you agree with me," Dora grinned.

"You never heard me say that," Ted said calmly, a hint of a smile on his face as he picked up the newspaper and disappeared behind it wordlessly.

* * *

 **Monday, July 10, 1995**

 **8:11 a.m.**

 **The Yates Household**

"Gods."

Gods was quite the understatement. The place was in a mess, people swarming in and out of the tiny, worn-down flat that Tonks had walked past three times before she noticed it tucked away in a drab building behind an array of lavish suburbs. The press had already managed to arrive before she did, and photographers from the Daily Prophet, the Barrington Post and the Wands Weekly snapped away with unchecked fury, the flashing lights assaulting her eyes with an almost seizure-inducing intensity. Tonks was surprised to note that even the Quibbler had sent a person; the press was all over it.

Not without reason, if their years of reporting had taught them anything about identifying the really gritty stories. Right now the Ministry was shaken, still trying to smother the problem with damage control that did nothing but hide the real facts. In the face of what Dumbledore was offering in explanation, any kind of crimes of violence against muggles, while always topping the headlines whenever they did happen on such a scale, were all the more essential to account for now. She could see the reporter from the Prophet rapidly taking notes, nodding in response to what Crawley from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was saying. Made sense to avoid the on-field aurors and take the angle of the office boys, if Fudge's influence over the Prophet wasn't a farce. Gingerly, she stepped past people, squeezing through masses of officials, healers and colleagues to get to the epicenter of the action.

"Tonks, he's out at that corner."

Tonks turned over her shoulder. The blond-haired woman in a beige overcoat who had tapped her shoulder pointed in a general northeast direction, toward the far corner of the room. She, at least, looked like she had gotten a night's sleep. It didn't seem like she had arrived on the scene much earlier than Tonks herself.

Tonks nodded at her colleague. "Thanks."

The woman nodded back. "I've been sent as the substitute. If you need anything, shout out. It looks like there's going to be a lot of paperwork."

She was smiling without amusement. Recalling the overview she'd received of the crime in the morning mail, the details of it fresh in her memory from having read it on her way over, Tonks exchanged a look of grim foreboding with her colleague.

"Ta, Wendy."

"See you in a bit."

Indeed Tonks saw who she was looking for in the far corner of the room, and she grimaced further as she always did at the idea of having to work with him once more. He was surveying the scene with cool calculation, huddling over what looked like a blueprint of the apartment with an old bald wizard in baggy robes. Pushing the urge to hex his shiny head of black hair into a carnival toy, she attempted to concentrate on trying to recollect all the facts of the case she was dealing with.

Raymond Yates, age forty-three, banker at Gringotts and a strong advocator of Muggle-wizard equality and reforms for social benefits coverage for non-magic spouses of employees of the Ministry of Magic. He'd been a part of a political group that was pressing for the passing of such laws for the last seven years. He'd recently had a promotion, his first in ten years, and a significant boost in his meager income. His Muggle wife, Bertha Yates, age forty, was a chef at a popular Italian restaurant, and walked two blocks to work every day. His fifteen year-old daughter Matilda Yates was not born with magical abilities and went to a muggle high school ten minutes away from where they lived. They were lower middle class in terms of financial conditions, and they lived in a sub-par flat on the expensive side of town because it was in proximity to the old age home where Mrs. Yates' aging father was currently living, suffering from Alzheimer's, most of his memory gone with no recollection of his daughter or her family.

Less than twelve hours ago, the entire family had been murdered.

No signs of struggle. The house had yet to be given a complete strip-down. They were still testing for more descriptive traces of magical residue, but there was enough to prove that a magical intervention had caused these deaths.

The black-haired auror looked up sharply from the blueprints as Tonks approached, fixing her with a look of critical aloofness. "You're late."

"By a margin of thirty-five seconds," Tonks replied coolly. "Update me."

"Actually, the press got here nearly an hour ago ..."

"Just update me, Randall," Tonks cut in snappily.

Randall cleared his throat primly, face impassive. "They're interviewing the neighbors right now, I haven't heard from that unit. There's another unit talking to his Gringotts colleagues, but I haven't heard from them either. Once the information is accumulated we can head back to office and consolidate the paperwork. Right now I was looking at the blueprints of the apartment; Birch and I are doing a more thorough magical imprint analysis."

He pointed at the bald man holding the paper next to him as he spoke. Analyzing for magical residue was the first course of action taken at a scene of crime that involved the use of magic. Every spell left a special sort of pattern that lingered in the air and surroundings as residual magic. A special Ministry unit of workers trained to analyze these aftereffects of magical use and work alongside aurors could read these magical residues almost like fingerprints, where each layer narrowed down the nature of the spell, hex, potion or curse that was used. Naturally, this was hugely useful in piecing together the sequence of events.

"And there was no sign of struggle at all? Nothing remotely suspicious in the way their bodies were found?" Tonks asked, frowning. If it was a hate killing, the murderers would've left behind a message, symbolic or scripted, in some form of the other. Simple murder without much incentive or motive was plain odd. The chances of a wizard breaking and entering the house of a harmless Gringotts banker, killing the entire family but leaving the bodies otherwise untouched didn't make much sense. From his profile, Yates didn't seem like the kind of man that had enemies hiding in bushes to gun him down.

Randall shrugged. "Take a look for yourself."

He reached into his coat pocket and tossed a small package of neatly stacked photographs, tied together with twine. Tonks unwound the binding, pocketing it, and sifted through the moving pictures.

"They've already moved the body, then?" Tonks frowned, holding up one particularly gruesome picture to the light, angled to capture the family of three sprawled dead in front the hearth and the wall behind them, right up to the ceiling.

"The muggle police were here two hours ago, cleared the bodies. We kept the fellow, Yates, however. Told them the usual, that his work was with our top-secret organization, and that we had a lead," Randall answered. He gave her a nettled look of condescension. "What're you ogling, there's nothing in that picture. We already checked."

"Well then I don't see the harm in me looking over it again," Tonks said, lowering the picture, and then sliding her fingers to reveal two of the same, hidden one behind the other. "Especially if 'we' fail to notice that in the Muggle polaroid version of the picture you have here, the wallpaper behind the mantle piece has flower patterns that are missing a petal."

Randall snatched the pictures out of her hand furiously, juxtaposing the two in midair as his eyes flickered between them. Birch, eyes wide, leaned in to look.

"There are seven in these instead of eight," Birch muttered in surprise, pointing at the polaroid. Indeed the tiny navy flowers printed evenly and methodically upon a blue backdrop seemed not to match the ones in the moving picture taken two hours after.

"Impossible," Randall drew in a sharp breath, "It's been tampered with."

"The picture? I doubt it. As offensive as disfigured flowers may be, I'd turn them into owl droppings if I wanted to pull one over you."

"The wallpaper," Randall snapped back at Tonks' cheeky remark. "The wallpaper has been tampered with!"

"But that means ..." Birch stuttered, failing to complete his sentence.

Randall and Birch exchanged a look of dawning comprehension. Only for a brief moment they were frozen in surprise, before both sprung into action with renewed vigor, Birch rolling up the blueprints hastily and Randall shouting out to the nearby Magical Imprint Inspection unit that was investigating a suspicious-looking instrument on a coffee table in the back of the room.

"Oi, we need two of you here, now," Randall barked. They looked up at him, exchange looks of surprise, and two of the workers, a man and a woman, stepped towards him. Both were dressed in blue jumpsuits, hands and feet hidden in gloves and shoes that glowed with an insulating charm that allowed them to move about without the fear of disturbing magical reside. The woman carried with her a bulky roll of parchment, quill tucked behind her ear.

"Sir?" The woman asked, slightly annoyed at having been dragged away from her work.

"Was that wall inspected for magical residue?" Randall demanded, pointing at the hearth.

The man and the woman exchanged a look. The man answered, "Yes, it was, it's the first part of the house we covered."

"And was there trace of magical residue?" Tonks interjected.

"Yes," the woman said almost patronizingly, "There was a good amount, actually."

"That's pointless, there would be since the murder happened there. The killing curse is powerful enough to have masked whatever other traces that might have been left behind by other activities," Randall scowled darkly.

The inspection unit workers looked impatient, not particularly pleased at having their jobs explained back to them.

Tonks turned to the man and woman. "Would it be possible to re-inspect the area?"

The man shrugged and the woman sighed and nodded, neither believing anything useful would come out of the activity. Bound to obey the aurors on duty, they followed Randall, Tonks and Birch as the trio approached the wall in question with tense briskness.

"Move aside," Randall demanded, and the circle or spectators, press reporters and Ministry workers widened to allow them to pass. Tonks walked up to the wall, slipping her right hand into one of the gloves that the woman worker handed to her. Reaching out, she ran her fingers lightly down it.

The woman spoke from beside her in a professional tone. "If there's magical residue, it should generally be in the cracks and kinks."

Tonk's fingers dropped to the mantlepiece, where the wallpaper began to crack, cut off where the wooden surface met cement. "How about at the ridges here?"

"Good place to start," the woman said, swiping her own gloved finger against the junction. She retrieved her hand, looking down at it as she rubbed her fingers together. "Nothing different form what we first accumulated, mostly residue from the killing curse."

"Hm," Tonks hummed, staring thoughtfully at the wall. "But that doesn't eliminate the presence of other spells, right?"

The woman said reluctantly, "Well ... no ..."

Tonks gazed appraisingly at the wall. It didn't quite look suspicious, but the wallpaper had definitely changed, the picture was proof of that. Her attention again fell to the ridge of the mantle piece where the wallpaper ended, and she picked at it till it began to chip off. The surface below was plain white. She frowned.

"So the paper hasn't been manually replaced," Tonks muttered to herself.

The woman stepped up suddenly next to her, swiping her finger again at the curve of the wall.

"Well, that's definitely different," the woman muttered. A few feet away, Randall and the man were leaning in toward the wall, pointing at a spot where the wallpaper had pealed slightly, curling inwards. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion, judging from the way he jabbed accusingly at the patch of wall revealed under the peeling paper. As if feeling Tonks' gaze upon him, Randall turned and caught her eye. They exchanged a nod.

"I want this wall subjected to a complete, thorough investigation," Tonks heard Randall instructing the two workers as she pulled off the glove on her hand, handing it to the woman, "I want every ounce of residue accounted for. If there was a concealing charm put in place, it would leave behind enough reside for it to show up in the analysis."

"Yes sir," the man said. He turned and beckoned to some of his other fellow workers who had been watching them from the coffee table. Tonks, Randall and Birch stepped away, retreating to a quieter corner as they watched the Ministry workers swarm around the wall.

"What does this mean?" Birch whispered frantically the moment they were out of earshot, twiddling with the rolled-up blueprints in his hand.

"If the wall has been tampered with, it's not very possible that it was the work of the murderers themselves," Tonks said grimly. "The polaroid was taken by the Muggle police at about five in the morning, and the one we have with us was taken at about seven, before we got here. Someone who had access to the area has tampered with it."

Randall looked sharply at her. "Watch who you're accusing, Tonks."

"Keep your pants on, I wasn't talking about you," she said in irritation.

"No, but you're getting carried away," Randall snapped. Birch gazed from one face to the other, lost. Randal had caught on to what Tonks was implying. The only people who had had access to the scene of the crime between the arrival of the Muggle authorities and the wizarding press were the Ministry workers themselves.

"You know I'm right," Tonks snapped back, incensed at his patronizing tone. "Just because you're too chicken to voice it –"

"You're so fucking childish, you know that? –"

"Yeah, you're real mature, arriving on time, what a hero –"

"Tonks."

Tonks whirled around in her irritation to see who'd called. Randall scowled and fell silent. They always did this, bicker like little children, ever since she'd first tripped him up outside the Charms corridor as a dare from Charlie Weasely back during her first year at Hogwarts, and the documented history of their momentous quarrels after that could fill volumes. It still made Tonks' blood boil, remembering some of the nastier things Randall had done and she was pretty sure he wanted nothing more than to set her hair on fire for her equally acid retaliation.

 _Stupid fuck,_ Tonks growled mentally, as Randall patted down his immaculate black hair, the familiar animosity stirring in his impassive face. She hated him. But she was stuck with him, like it or not, for their fierce battle to outperform on another since the moment they'd stepped into the same class in school had led them to pursue the same intense career, the same rigorous back-breaking competition to be the best in their field, and now, placed them in the same auror unit, working under their mutual boss, Roy Sinha.

From the far end of the room, the very same boss was stalking towards her, looking somewhat nettled as his long, lanky hair fell into his thin face. Tonks winced, mentally going over every possibility behind his looking this irked, and wondered if he'd finally found out who had spiked his ginger at last Christmas's office party. Her habituated mind immediately presented her with a colorful set of excuses to use as he came nearer.

"Randall," he nodded curtly. "Situation under control?"

"Yes sir," Randall replied.

 _He could've asked me that question,_ Tonks huffed as she thought to herself.

"Good. I'll hold you to it, then. Tonks, got a minute?" He asked, eyebrow raised. The collar of the stiff black mackintosh robes he always made a habit of wearing stood up around his neck, thick black hair blending with the spotless shoulders of the coat. He looked tired, borderline sardonic, but that wry smile was a distinct characteristic of Roy Sinha. At least a foot taller than Tonks, he gazed down at her appraisingly.

"Why?" Tonks asked.

"Because I'm your boss and it wasn't really a question. I need a minute," he said. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Tonks to hurriedly weave through cameramen and sleep-deprived investigators. Tonks stumbled and made an admonishing noise at her superior, glaring at him balefully as she stopped where he was standing. He gave no notice.

"Well what is it?" she asked flatly, dusting off her robes in indignation.

Sinha handed her a sheaf of papers, face stoic. "Your new assignment."

Tonks blanked out for a few seconds. "Eh?"

"You new assignment," Sinha repeated, waving the papers under her nose. She grabbed them and stared, reading the top of the page rapidly.

"Fergal Donaghey," Tonks repeated blankly. "What, that git who was witness to the Dominican Base robberies?"

"Upper management thinks you'd be good for the job," Sinha said, suddenly preoccupied by his nails. Tonks simply stared at him, dumbstruck. It was a simple locate-and-accost job. Tonks shuffled the papers slowly. The man wasn't even a dangerous criminal, just a small-time con artist who'd stumbled into something bigger than he could handle and was now on the run from the Ministry, too afraid to share crucial knowledge he was alleged to possess.

It wasn't even a real case, there was nothing to solve.

"Rubbish," she said, tossing the file back at him, "I'm not taking on some rookie's first break, anybody on the benches can take this case. Why is it even still on the table?"

"Because they still haven't caught him," he said with slight annoyance, her disdain having rubbed him in the wrong way. He tossed the file back at her, which she caught. "He's important to some other people in upper management too, they have other cases pending till the Dominican Base Robberies is sorted out, so they want to get it wrapped up quick."

"And why me?" Tonks asked with an undertone of bitterness. Staring at the papers in her hand, she hazarded a guess that this was happening on Scrimgeour's orders. _Still see me as a threat, eh?_ Tonks felt a spark of smug satisfaction at this attempt to keep her too busy to further her investigation. It was definitely a frustration to her to have to put up with this kind of ridiculous, unimportant drudgery, but at least she'd be able to get it out of the way fast. It wasn't a difficult case.

Perhaps it could be used to her advantage if she played it right; extra resources and an excuse to use her badge for more fieldwork investigation could be pretty useful.

Still, it placed a cloud of irritation above her head. Sinha seemed to have sensed this, for he spoke with a placating tone. "Look Tonks, I'm sure it won't take much time, we already have leads. Get it over with and I'll try to divert any more such cases that come your way."

Good old Sinha.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do it," Tonks muttered.

"Good," Sinha said approvingly. "A new back of aurors came in last month. Bloody incompetent. Told one off for overlooking the murderer's hair under the carpet of the victim's house and he nearly wet himself. Ever since Moody got himself retired the place is a fucking carnival."

Tonks snorted out loud at the glowering pout on his face. "Don't be too hard on them. They've come in at precisely the wrong time."

"The right time," Sinha corrected dryly. "The Ministry's in chaos, you'd think they'd be thrilled to be given actual cases instead of being sent off to corner snarky old women who've shirked paying their taxes."

He gazed out at the gaggle of reporters and investigators moving through the room in borderline pandemonium. "Get Wendy Snider to do the paperwork here. I called her in today specifically for that. I don't see why you can't work three cases at once so long as you can give me a weekly report of your progress on Dominican Base Robberies. Randall can handle this business."

That stung. Hers and Randall's long-standing feud had its claws deeply set in her ego. Tonks scowled darkly. "That'll make his day."

"Tonks, it's not a promotion, he's just working this case," Sinha responded patiently.

"You know as much as I do how much each case counts," Tonks shot back.

Sinha eyed her appreciatively. He placed a hand on her shoulder and gripped her with the camaraderie of one whose ambition to excel was just as fiercely consuming as hers. "You'll catch up. Mad-Eye didn't endorse you for nothing. But don't make this about you and Randall. It's not worth the competition."

He gave her a significant look. Tonks was not satisfied. Sinha would never truly understand the difficulties of being a woman in this business. But she nodded, knowing that if nothing, Sinha would put in a good word for her when it came to it.

"Watch you back, Tonks. Don't do anything stupid," Sinha said in parting, as he upturned his wilting collar and buried his hands in his pockets. A spasm shot through Tonks at the unexpected warning from him, more accurate than he was aware of it being. It almost like an omen, especially since she'd already finalized her next move just that morning after her conversation with her father.

There was no working around it; while working through old articles was a productive enough method of uncovering details of the happenings leading up to death of Cedric Diggory, it was too slow a process for her patience to make peace with. As the panic and mistrust and foreboding escalated about her inside the Ministry, outside the Ministry, even on the sidewalks where clumps of witches and wizards whispered urgently to each other and met in secret, eyes darting with an unnerved air under the blanket of the Ministry's facade, Tonks new her leisurely hunt through old newspapers would not get her answers fast enough. It was the time for drastic action.

She would acquire the Diggory case file, even if she had to resort to stealing it.


	3. Breaking Bad

"Chen."

It took a few seconds for his eyes to stagger to a halt from their rapid movement across the lines of the page and his mind to resurface from the book-coma he was so prone to falling into. Thoughts swimming with grindylows and exotic miengu, he blinked rapidly at the figure towering above his desk, casting a shadow upon his hefty tomb. Without further ado, he rose to his feet as his superior stood before him, hands behind his back and face impassive.

"Sir?" Bert asked in vague befuddlement. He knew the man, of course, who didn't. His name was legendary in the office, casting itself among the most skillful and respected aurors of the department. Having entered the Auror Office at the age of nineteen as a young prodigy only just out of schooling at Hogwarts, he'd quickly escalated amongst his peers, most of whom had a few years on him, with a mere year of training and an unparalleled knack for solving the most complicated of cases. Dedicated to the Ministry and bent on climbing the ranks as fast and ruthlessly as possible, Rupan Sinha now, only a level below high-ranking officials like Kingsley Shacklebolt and Sturgis Podmore and within half the time it had taken them to get there, commanded the respect not only of his own task force of competent newcomers but the entire floor he worked on, even his superiors.

But that was not Bert's concern, really. He glanced over at Tonks' empty desk and then back at Sinha.

Sinha sighed. "Where's Tonks?"

Bert guessed at much. He was as clueless as Sinha was. "No idea, Sir. She hasn't come in to office yet."

A nettled expression came over his face. Sinha made a noise of impatience and said, "If you see her, tell her I've been looking."

"Yes Sir."

Sinha nodded, and then turned on heel, black mackintosh robes billowing behind him in a fashion similar to his mane of black hair. Bert lowered himself back into his chair as he watched him go, speculating once more as he tended to do from time to time on just how suicidal Tonks was. Sinha was a terrifying presence, and if he, Bert, worked under that man, the idea of Sinha ruthlessly stalking the floor in search of him would've scared him shitless.

 _Tonks_ , Bert shook his head to himself. She did make it a habit to stumble into office ten minutes late every day looking like she'd ran through a landmine and fallen into a puddle of facepaint what with papers flying out of her bag, her tattered jeans, and eye-popping hair. But she never did miss a day of work, and in spite of her disheveled appearance, she knew exactly where what was, and picked up effortlessly where she left of as if she hadn't gone home for the night. To be sure, he suspected in all technicality, she probably didn't; her personal drawers in their cubicle were relatively empty, and he knew that her dedication to each case extended beyond the confines of her desk. She took her cases to the bedside and had them half-figured out by the end of the afternoon.

It wasn't like her to be this late. But there was always a first, he supposed. In any case, Bert didn't dwell on his absent friend for long, and almost immediately returned to his book, once more lost to the world of the murky underwater.

* * *

This is not going well, Tonks thought grimly.

She glanced about the cubicle, mind suddenly running in all possible directions as her plan started falling apart. There was not much she could do now and she groaned internally in frustration at her failed attempt.

She had risked the gamble because she had been so _sure_.

 _Damn it all_.

Tonks straightened, throwing one last look around the room in a desperate attempt to make her visit worthwhile. It was a very neat office, floor spotless – her reflection was clearer in these tiles than in her mirror at home – papers piled and stacked with precision atop one another to an error of a hair's width, hundreds of posters and photographs pinned across the expanse of the walls apparently with great attention to their alignment with the floor, it all made Tonks feel all the more agitated about knocking something over. Pictures of Sirius Black, his gaunt eyes frozen under her spell in order to hide her presence, were tacked up across the room, bordering the large world map, where little pinpricks of red glowed in clutters across the landmasses. There were no personal photographs on the desk, but that didn't really surprise Tonks much. She hadn't touched anything on the desk really, mostly because there wasn't much to touch in the first place, and she had put all her hopes on the box she was currently hovering around.

Tonks made a move to run her hand through her hair before realizing she didn't have any. She growled in frustration, stifling the panic building up inside of her.

Stupid Dora. Stupid, stupid.

She should've investigated further before coming here … always do your homework … Mad-Eye would blast her rear if he ever found out about this.

There was a sudden knock on the door that made Tonks start violently as her heart attempted to make a suicidal dive into her gut. She stood absolutely still, praying that whoever had knocked would leave if she didn't respond. Her breath came in quick rasps, and she closed her eyes to get herself to calm down.

There was a second knock that made her eyes fly open. A moment later, a woman's muffled voiced floated from the other side of the door.

"Sir, I noticed that you'd come to office today for a bit. Not to disturb you, but may I have a word?"

Her heart sank heavily. She weighed her options and realized she had no choice but to answer to door if she didn't want to rouse suspicion. If the woman had seen Tonks come in, she'd have to play her part. Straightening her deep blue robes and Auror badge, she cleared her voice and boomed, "Come in."

A brunette poked her head around the door. "Sir, there are some papers I want you to go over, if you don't mind."

Sirens were blaring in her head as she tensed up. Visual records of her presence here was all she could risk, if even that. Any paper that required her signature would be as good as a death sentence.

"I'm sorry…" _What the bloody shite was her name?_ "I was actually getting ready to leave. Came back for a file or two. Heading straight back home, you know."

The brunette nodded slowly, "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow should be fine," Dora replied, clasping her hands behind her back to stop them from fiddling with hair that didn't exist. _Don't overdo the talking, Dora. Let her come to her own conclusions. Keep the lies open to interpretation_.

But suspicion, thankful, had not been roused. The brunette gave a small smile as she withdrew from the room. Dora could hardly believe her luck.

"Do get well soon, sir."

Tonks cleared her throat and gave a brisk nod. "Good day."

The secretary began to turn away. A sudden though crashed into her high-strung instincts, and Dora's mind raced as she abruptly blurted out, "Oh, and another thing."

The secretary paused at the doorway, looking over her shoulder.

"I'd prefer if you didn't mention that I was here ... to anybody, really. My files are being frozen today, I'm technically not supposed to access anything..." Dora said, gesturing vaguely towards the Blue Box, hoping the woman couldn't see the minute tremors racking her outstretched arm.

The secretary smiled secretively, apparently used to such requests of confidentiality from her boss. "It won't be a problem, Sir. Good day."

Dora mentally cursed herself as the door closed behind the woman, heart sinking. As thankful as she was that she'd been able to think quickly enough on her feet a few seconds ago, it was overshadowed by her dismay at the fact that it shouldn't have been _necessary_. She was hoping to peep in and slip out without attracting too much attention, and now she could add the brunette to the growing list of people who'd seen her.

What was that _blasted_ secretary doing here anyway? It was her day off, she'd even told her husband to book a reservation for lunch this very afternoon.

All this risk, and she didn't even get what she was looking for.

She gave a last sweeping look around the office, half-heartedly trying to identify any fingerprints she had missed to Tergeo and wondering if the stack of papers on top of the Blue Box had been placed at that angle when she had first stepped in.

Leave no evidence. If Kingsley Shacklebolt finds out you were here…if he realizes what you're looking for…

She didn't want to complete the thought.

Five minutes later, she stepped out of the cubicle as quietly as she could, closing the door gently behind her. At least the secretary served one purpose - the woman had access to his office, and her presence today accounted for the fact that someone other than Shacklebolt had entered the room, in case Shacklebolt decided to check if his office had been accessed.

The area was void of people. Knowing it wouldn't be so for long, Dora walked quickly down the hall, keeping her head low and her footsteps as quiet as she could. She concentrated on her feet and found herself making a resolution to get Kingsley Shacklebolt new shoes for Christmas.

She glanced up. The exit was down the corridor. Almost there.

She tripped.

One very unfamiliar, dark-skinned hand flung itself onto the wall in a reflex move to support her unfamiliar weight. The contact of the calloused palm against the smooth surface elicited a very loud thud and Dora winced as she swore internally, wildly wondering if she'd managed to cause a miniature earthquake with her cursed inability to maintain gravitational equilibrium.

The sound echoed. There was a rustling noise, and Dora's heart skipped a beat. Slowly, a head peeked out from one of the door along the wall. It was Middleton. "Oh hullo Kingsley, thought I heard you."

 _You and the rest of the planet._ "Yes, erm, terribly sorry about that."

There was really no need to be worried, and unless somebody peeked under her robes, they wouldn't be able to tell her apart from the real Kingsley Shacklebolt. There were certain parts of her anatomy…well, point is, she didn't find it necessary to morph absolutely everything. It would only drain her energy.

And nobody was about to try to peek under Kingsley Shacklebolt's robes anyway, impostor or not.

With this newfound confidence, Dora looked Middleton straight in the eye and gave an authoritative nod.

Middleton eyed her indifferently, and then disappeared with a muffled 'well see you around'.

Dora let out a breath. She was an utter wreck, and she wanted to knock herself out for acting like a bumbling amateur. Goddamit, she was an Auror, this should be a walk in the park for somebody who'd be trained to sneak around dangerous areas and paid to analyze impostors and conmen.

Collecting her scattered wits, she covered the rest of the length of the hallway in at a brisk pace that bordered outright running, and fled out the exit before she did something really stupid and gave herself away.

It was late morning outside, and not too overpopulated outside the public lavatory from which she stumbled out to be noticed. She didn't waste any time in lingering about or enjoying the liberation of being out in the open again, but kept her head low and continued to put as much distance between herself and Kingsley Shacklebolt's office as was humanly feasible. Once she was in the sanctuary of an alleyway outside on the London roads, she morphed herself back to her pink hair and dark eyes, simultaneously transfiguring back her own clothes. She slumped against the wall.

That had not gone well.

It turned out that Kingsley Shacklebolt did not have access to the Diggory Case.

It was odd, and she had a rather good reason to assume Kingsley would be privy to the case file. He was high up enough on the administrative hierarchy anyway, in charge of his own operational unit to capture Sirius Black, and got along quite well with Scrimgeour and Fudge, as far as she knew. She didn't know Kingsley personally; he had been present as an assistant for most of her three years of training with Mad-Eye, but back then he had been looking over all fifty-seven auror recruits, so there was no reason to assume that he knew more about her than her name.

Damn, she had been so _sure_.

Yet somehow, though this new development baffled her, it simultaneously heightened her need for answers to an all new level. Kingsley hadn't been given access to the case. There was key information in this. It constricted the confidentiality of the Diggory case tenfold, eliminated a large legion of aurors that could possibly be in on the secret and leaving only three tiers of the hierarchy that could still have access to the file.

Why, why was the information so restricted? What was so secretive about one of the most important cases of the year that the Ministry felt it had to be banned from being talked about and swept under the rug?

By golly, Dora was going to find out.

Things have a way of coming back to us when we least suspect it, springing upon us unforeseen consequences and vindictive little vices that, by themselves, appear so harmless in their potence but are part of a much larger mechanism by which our very downfall, if left to its own devices, could be brought about. What's more, is that oftentimes under the influence of relief from immediate danger, we fail to look back over our shoulder and cover our tracks so as to not have the lion follow us out of the den we just managed to escape. And, thus hiding in those moments of oblivious relief, consequences swarm down upon us with their lethal claws and unavoidable malice.

Such was Dora's predicament as her day went by in comparative uneventfulness. Bert gave her a queer look when she entered their cubicle an hour and a half late, and told her that Sinha had dropped by. It did dawn upon her even when, on returning to her desk that morning after a quick word with her boss on punctuality on other important things such as the progress on her cases, she turned to her own Blue Box muttering 'Louis Bottle' in an absent sort of way as the file appeared at the top of the stack. No, it was only in the evening when she turned back to her Blue Box at the end of her day to return her Louis Bottle case file when it struck her, slapped her rudely awake, if you will, and then she was frozen in sudden icy panic as she gazed at the magical screen above her Blue Box, where a small list of names blinked out at her, 'Louis Bottle' topping it.

And she knew, at that instance, a similar small list was hovering above a similar Blue Box in Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, and topping it would be the name 'Cedric Diggory'.

* * *

"Bert."

The soft sounds of scratching quills and the humming of the bulletin board updating itself on the far wall continued undisturbed. Tonks didn't bother opening her eyes, but swiveled slightly in her chair, heavy combat boots propped up on her desk and hands folded neatly across her midriff.

"Bert."

The young man on the desk opposite to her deliberately turned a page of his heavy book, immune to aural disturbance of any kind.

"Bert. Bert. Bert. Bert."

The annoying chanting failed to inspire any response. Tonks cracked an eye open. After a few seconds of deliberation, she stretched her arm and reached for a sagging satchel of Every Flavor Beans from her desk. She dug out a particularly nasty looking one from its depths and meticulously coated it with her tongue. Taking careful aim, she flicked it across the yard and a half separating her desk from her colleague's.

It smacked his forehead and fell with a disgusting squelch straight on his book. The man's face twisted in disgust.

"Eurgh, Tonks, that's sick! … not the book man, not the book," he complained, using his wand to cagily prod the sticky bean off of the tome on his desk.

"Yes well, desperate times and all," Tonks said flatly. "You could pick it up and chuck it in the bin you know, instead of poking it like it's owl dung."

Bert made a face. "I'm not touching anything with your saliva on it." With a flick of his wand, he vanished the offending bean.

She rolled her eyes, "What are you, twelve?"

Bert looked pointedly at her.

"Hm," Tonks hummed in agreement.

He fixed her with a disapproving look. "Well? What?"

She rested her head on the back of her chair, swiveling it slightly as she gazed at the ceiling, "Have you finished your case?"

Bert ran a hand over his tired face. "Are you honestly telling me this is why I got mauled by your salivated bean?"

"It was one bean Bert, get over it."

"No."

" _No?_ "

"I meant no, I haven't finished," Bert replied, furrowing down in his chair and propping his book up to hide his face. Tonks bit her lip pensively, fingering a pink curl as she carefully mapped the subsequent conversation in her head. It couldn't sound suspicious, no, she had to tread around suspicion very carefully.

"Hm," Tonks hummed again, "Bert, listen, I've having a bit of a spot with mine. Think you can help me out here?"

Bert peered over his book. "What kind of spot?"

Dora pulled open her drawer, yanking out a fat yellow file that made a slapping sound against her desk as she ungracefully slammed it down. "I need a cross-reference. I'm pretty sure I've got this guy where I want him, but I still need a solid rationale to make the arrest."

"Well, how am I supposed to help you get a cross-reference? You have your source files, go pop open the cabinet and pull 'em out."

Dora's fingers closed into a fist and crushed the curl she had been toying with. She spoke very carefully. "It's not in the cabinet."

Bert frowned at her from behind his desk. "Not in the cabinet?"

"No. It's actually … erm … it's outside my supplied references."

Bert's eyebrows furrowed together. Tonks yanked a strand of her hair hard. "You can't find anything from your supplied?"

"No Bert, I really can't, I went through the entire sodding list but there's nothing I can use."

"Well then how do you know you'll find it elsewhere?"

Dora leaned forward, smiling casually. Her answer was ready. "I actually read it off The Prophet the other day in reference to another crime. My guy's name came up as a minor roll, but if I can make the right connections, this'll wrap my case right up."

Bert closed his book carefully. "Maybe you should ask Shaklebolt about it. I suppose he could help …"

 _"Tonks!"_

 _Tonks' own foot made immediate contact with the protruding foot of a nearby desk in response to the calling of her name and she made an odd gagging sound that had less to do with the toll gravity was taking on her and more to do with the wild banging her heart was doing inside her chest._

 _Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow and made no move to help, leaving Tonks to fumble and catch herself by grabbing onto the edge of the offending desk._

 _She whirled around, her face blank and polite. "Er, that'd be me." She swallowed convulsively, her heartbeat sounding like a loud, clanging dirge to her own ears. Her hands were cold and clammy and she resisted the urge to wipe them on her robes._

 _The game was up. He was going to accost her, arrest her, drop her in a vat of boiling oil and lock her in a cage full of rampaging hippogriffs…_

 _He eyed her appraisingly. "You dropped a paper."_

 _She stared stupidly. He was holding out a paper that had indeed fallen out of the sheaf she had tucked under her arm._

 _Slowly, disbelievingly, her head spinning, she reached out to take it._

 _His hand suddenly tightened on the paper, and as he leaned forward, she found herself staring at his sharp eyes feeling wildly like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Her hand trembled as she abandoned her weak attempts to tug the paper out of his firm grip._

 _His face was set in a grim line. "I suggest vehemently that you be careful."_

 _Somehow, Tonks thought dryly as she watched his broad retreating back with a half-dazed expression, she felt that statement probably had a much deeper message._

"No," Tonks said, a little too quickly. She did not want to risk a run-in with him again. "I don't want to bother the seniors with this. It isn't life-threatening or anything. I thought I'd ask you if you knew how … I mean, it's such a simple thing I need to get my hands on and I'll save myself about a week …"

She trailed off and ended with a little shrug. She leaned back easily in her chair, but her hands were clammy and she surreptitiously eyed Bert, who was looking slightly doubtful.

"Tonks," Bert said slowly, "I hope you're not … you know, going to try to do something … rash."

"It's my case, Bert," Tonks said coolly, "It's just my case."

Bert eyed her, but nodded anyway. "If you say so. Anyway, I can't help you much in either case. You know you need special permission to pull files out that aren't in your supplied list."

Tonks sighed, but smiled internally. The conversation was going just as planned. She deliberately leaned back in her chair, swiveling it around as she stared thoughtfully at the ceiling again.

"Ever wondered where they keep all the case files?"

Bert grunted. "Who hasn't?"

"I suppose nobody knows," Tonks said bemusedly, "I suppose only Fudge, Scrimgeour and the Department of Archives folks know."

Bert hummed in agreement, not really listening. Tonks ducked down to read the title of his book. 'A Dark Arts Theory of Aquatic Evolutions'.

"Sounds sinister," Tonks noted, squinting to see the names of the authors. Mortimer Trout and Rupert Lawl ...

"I don't think Scrimgeour and Fudge are allowed access to the Department of Archives library," Bert said suddenly, lowering his book so that the names were obscured. Tonks lifted her head with slow deliberation.

"That doesn't make sense Bert, Scrimgeour would need free access to all and every file we have."

"His filing cabinet is rigged that way," Bert said, swiveling around in his chair as he fiddled with the papers on his desk, "It has complete access to all and any case files. So he doesn't have to actually go to where it's physically kept."

"How do you know this?" Tonks asked. Her hands were clammy again, and the agitation of expectancy was pooling into her stomach.

"I overheard a Department of Archives worker complaining about it. Said some shite about Scrimgeour not putting 'em back in his cabinet on time," Bert said with a shrug.

"Oh," Tonks said, her voice sounding faraway even to herself. As good as a key to the archives library. Complete access to all and any case files. Yes. Tonks closed her eyes for a few seconds. This was good. Schemes began racing through her head as she toyed with this new information. She hadn't gotten anything out of Shacklebolt's office, and that had been a very rash move on her part. She was hanging by a thread of luck at this point, and all she could do was pray that Shacklebolt continue to dismiss her as a clumsy, ignorant rookie auror. Whatever she did next had to be done with the utmost caution on her part. One wrong step, and it would all blow up in her face ...

"TONKS."

Rudely shocked out of her intense mental session, she nearly fell out of her chair with a loud squawk, knocking over her ink stand in the process and causing temporary pandemonium in the vicinity. The people from the cubicle next door hissed disapprovingly at this interruption. Bert calmly turned a page of his book, not bothering to look up. Recovering from her already frayed nerves, she shot the antagonist of look of pure loathing as he stalked towards her desk in his usual brisk, brooding fashion.

"Bloody hell Sinha," Tonks said in acute irritation. "Give a fellow colleague a warning, won't you?"

Sinha gave her a most patronizing look as he stared at her sprawled figure on the floor that would've made Bert laugh otherwise. He watched Tonks get back on her feet with dark grumbles, and shook his head disapprovingly.

"I came for a report on your case," Sinha said dryly. "Upper is pressuring me, and I need to give them the impression that you've done some actual work."

"Right, naturally your female employees are incompetent fools," Tonks said mildly.

Sinha sighed. "You seem to think this was my idea."

"It wasn't, you're just implicit in the system."

"Your speculations are valid, but I really haven't the time for this conversation right now."

"Convenient," Tonks muttered under her breath.

"Can we get on with what we really ought to be discussing at this point?" Sinha asked pointedly.

"Right on, boss," Tonks said with faux cheerfulness, sweeping the piece of parchment into the drawer of her desk. "Full steam ahead. What do we all care about workplace sexism anyway, am I right?"

Sinha gave her a withering look, asking himself for the upteenth time why he kept the snarky pink-haired witch on his team. His question was answered a few seconds later when Tonks leaned back to claw at her bag, tugging out a scroll of neatly rolled parchment and tossed it at him with still-present cheeriness. He unrolled it, read the top of the page where in bold print, the words " **Preliminary Assessment of Fergal Donaghey** " were written.

"Donaghey last withdrew money of the twentieth of June," Tonks explained, settling back on her desk as Sinha skimmed the document. "He took half of his savings and sealed off the rest. I'm guessing, with the decent amount he's presumably carrying with him, he isn't exactly going to be camping out in Knockturn Alley. My best bet, him being an ex-conman, is that he's hiding under one of his false names, preferably one that would allow him to carry his liquid money without drawing suspicion."

"That would narrow it down to three aliases: Quidditch gambler Russel Bean, thestral breeder Myers A. Chen, and Mr. Donny Bellamy, co-owner of the hotel chain called The Silver Hare," Sinha said, reading off the report.

"My best bet is Bellamy," Tonks said. "The city up north where he was last sighted is one of The Silver Hare's main headquarters. He'd have his own hotel security staff too, if need be. I'll hand this in upstairs tomorrow and file a request for an on-field team. Hopefully I can wrap it up in the next two days."

There was a hint of pride in Sinha's reluctant smile as he handed the parchment back to her. "Keep me up-to-record with how it goes."

Tonks swiveled around on her chair, humming. "Not so useless after all, us women."

"I'll see what I can do to get upper off your back," Sinha said, a hint of a smile on his face.

But Tonks paid no heed, her thoughts immediately jumping back to her scheming. Once she had Donaghey in a cell, she could finally concentrate on the Yates Murder and her own still-born scheme of acquiring the Diggory Case File. Being bogged down with extra work wasn't a new occurrence for younger Aurors in her position, and Donaghey's case was too easy to be true. By next week she'd have laid to sleep once and for all Scrimgeour's persistent suspicion of her and kicked Randall's ass on the murders to boot.

* * *

"I never understood why our people never caught on to this stuff."

Tonks looked down at her mug of steaming coffee, but her expression wasn't as awed at Bert's as he gazed admiringly at his foamy cappuccino. A muggle coffee shop was not necessarily the most popular hangout for young Ministry employees, but a couple of the folks on her floor regularly frequented Espresso Marina, mostly for its anonymity and the diminished chance of running into other Ministry workers.

The fantastic coffee helped a bit too.

"It's a bit cramped, no?" Randall asked, looking about him furtively.

"Why is he here again?" Tonks asked loudly. Randall gave her a disdainful look as he opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by the woman at the counter who was yelling out his order. With the delicacy of somebody who thought himself above being in such a low-scale place, Randall squeezed out of his seat to pick up his drink.

"Don't be like that," the man to Tonks' immediate left said reproachfully.

"He started it," Tonks muttered.

"He's a sweetheart when you get to know him," the man said, his boyish face softening into an affectionate smile as he watched Randall on the other side of the café waiting sullenly by the counter as five young teenagers raucously asked the barista for whipped cream on their smoothies.

"How long have you been telling her that, Darcy?" Bert asked in amusement, finally having torn his gaze away from his now-less-foamy coffee mug.

"I'm hoping she'll catch on," Darcy said, looking a little downhearted as he played with his curly black hair.

Tonks felt bad. "I promise I'll behave."

Darcy shook his head in amusement. That wasn't likely – Randall and Tonks had walked into auror training bent on outcompeting one another, and they weren't likely to cease to make Darcy happy. Tonks never quite understood how Darcy and Randall fell in love, given how utterly gentle and kind Darcy was and how utterly draconian Randall's self-importance and treatment of others was. Romance was a weird, weird thing.

"You will come to our anniversary celebration, won't you?" Darcy implored.

"Yes, please do," Randall said flatly, reappearing at their table with his drink and sliding in next to Darcy. Darcy looked at Tonks with wide, trusting eyes.

"Anything for you, Darcy," Tonks replied cheerfully.

"You should bring along a date," Darcy said encouragingly. "She should, shouldn't she?"

Darcy looked at Randall, and Randall looked back at Darcy, and Tonks had a feeling there was more to it than a simple friendly invitation.

"What?" Tonks blurted out.

Randall snorted.

"Well what is it?" Tonks asked testily, playing with the handle of her mug.

Darcy nudged Randall, who scratched his head and raised an eyebrow, surveying Tonks from head to toe.

Tonks raised an eyebrow in response. She repeated suspicious, "... What is it?"

"It wasn't my idea," Randall said, frowning at himself in an attempt to phrase whatever it was he wished to convey. He didn't look quite enthusiastic about the task, but more like a man who'd been blackmailed into taking up a duty he would otherwise hold a large amount of scorn for. "Er. An acquaintance of mine from work was asking after you."

Bert looked up in surprise. Tonks snorted.

"If it's Taft tell him I don't have his sodding remembrall–"

"It's not Taft," Randall said, all but rolling his eyes. "It's a fellow name Rhys Scott. Works with evidence analysis on the fourth floor."

Tonks blinked. "I don't know anybody named Scott."

"I couldn't care less. For whatever unfathomable reason, he seems to have taken a fancy to you," Randall said bitterly, like it was Tonks' fault he'd been put up to this preposterous task. "He's asked me to introduce him to you. I have no interest in doing so, but I agreed to pass on his intentions."

Tonks gaped blankly at him, one of those rare moments when she was at a loss for words as Bert broke into stifled giggles Darcy continued to watch the exchange eagerly.

Unable to hold back his exasperation any longer, Randal rolled his eyes at the coy responses from the people in the vicinity. He huffed and said, "In any case, if you're _interested_ , I have his number here for you."

He tossed a scrap of parchment on her desk. She recoiled from it slightly.

"Me?" She asked doubtfully.

"My thoughts precisely," Randall said, the doubt in his voice painfully obvious as well.

"Got our eye on upper management have we, eh Tonks?" Bert said, waggling his eyebrows as he peered at her from above his coffee mug. "Aiming big."

"Scott _does_ work upstairs, right?" Darcy interjected with amused curiosity. Structurally, the floor above theirs was where the big guys had their offices, a clear hierarchical division within the three Department floors. This middle arena exuded an air of power; high-ranking, smartly-dressed people, senior to all but the Minster of Magic himself and the head of the Auror Office, Scrimgeour, both of whom took office on the topmost of the three-tier Department infrastructure.

The collective authority habituating the second floor however, itself could bring down the entire Ministry standing alone.

"Those guys are a real hefty," Bert interjected with a grin. "Powerful and everything. Real smart, respectable folks on the upper floors."

Tonks rolled her eyes, recalling the growing legions of manipulative, power-hungry wizards infiltrating the Ministry. "Oh yeah, upper management is God's gift to women."

"Honestly," Randall said sharply, throwing a look of disapproval at Bert, who smirked and retreated into his mug. Tonks almost smirked alongside him at Randall's annoyance.

"We'll see," Tonks said calmly, pocketing the piece of paper. Darcy beamed.

"You'll like him, he's a nice fellow," Darcy said.

"I'm not really into fellows at the moment," Tonks said, remembering the last few people she'd taken back to her place, most of them women who refreshingly had nothing to do with the Ministry.

"But you'll consider it?" Bert asked, watching Tonks in amusement.

Tonks waved his statement away airily, mood having lifted considerably since morning, "Have you _met_ me? Dates and I have a tragic and cumbersome history. I wouldn't even have the chance to show him my pig snout nose before he'd run away screaming."

"Can't be worse than me," Bert said darkly. "The last date I went to the girl asked me where I was from, and I told her I was from London but she wouldn't have it. Seemed to think I wasn't telling her the whole story and insisted on going out to eat 'authentic Chinese.'"

"Did you go?" Tonks asked.

"No, but that wasn't the worst part. I ended up sneezing in the girl's fish, accidentally flicking a pea into her cleavage and hexing her face fluorescent green out of fright when she asked me if I wanted her cherry."

Tonks burst out laughing.


End file.
